


Rose of Sharon

by junsun



Category: Grantchester (TV)
Genre: 30 days of prompts, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-09 03:23:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17993903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junsun/pseuds/junsun
Summary: Sidney wore his collar like it was a relief to be so restrained.





	Rose of Sharon

**Author's Note:**

> Set after DS Wilkinson spills the beans to Cathy in S3E4.

Cathy said Geordie could sleep at the office, in a box, below a bridge -- just as long as it wasn't near her. She wasn't trying to punish anyone, and it wasn't about any one thing -- person -- in particular, though of course she could see how Geordie might think that. They had given it a go, all right, and muddled through the girls' birthdays and Christmas too, but now it was time to face reality. With the children off from school for the summer, she was taking them to her mother's place in Huntingdonshire. Geordie would not be invited.

Cathy was soaking pans in the kitchen when she said it, elbow-deep in soapy water. For a moment, Geordie was possessed by the hysterical thought that she was holding a knife where he couldn't see it, just waiting for him to take one step too close. Then his eyes cleared and he said,

"I'll pack an overnight bag."

"Better make it the week," she said briskly, and pulled the stopper from the drain.

 

 

 

 

"Not your usual sort of place," Sidney said, dropping heavily onto the next stool over. He smelled faintly of sweat and cognac; he'd been drinking alone when he'd received Geordie's summons. The combed waves were coming out of his hair, and a few loose curls hung over his brow. Frankly, he looked like someone had knocked the coiffure out of him with a punch, which was nearly about how Geordie felt, so it was just as well he'd called him out.

Geordie finished his scotch and gestured for two more. "Usual place's too close to the station."

"Ah."

Sidney's eyes moved round the pub, casing the place like he was on investigation, before coming to rest on Geordie. He doubted Sidney realized how his eyes lingered on the women. For a man of God, Sidney did enjoy his earthly pleasures.

Good jazz, expensive cigars, and women. If it weren't for the collar, he could have been a mobster straight out of a BBC teleplay.

"There's still gossip, then," Sidney said, and paid for their drinks without asking. "No, really," he said, putting a hand on Geordie's arm to forestall any complaints. "Has DS Wilkinson been talking?"

"Not any more than usual." Geordie turned his glass round, watching the glow from the yellow gas lamps move through his ice. When he'd punched Phil, there'd been witnesses, none of them drunk enough not to put two and two together. "It caused a stir, me taking the cot out of my office. They're saying Cathy made me promise to sleep at home more. Like she's got a leash on me." He smiled bitterly. "Not that it's any of their business."

Sidney nodded. He was braced forward on his elbows, resting them on the counter. With his black clergy shirt, he cut a dark, hulking figure. Heathcliff on the moors, Geordie thought, and snorted.

"Where is Cathy now?" Sidney said.

"Supposedly her mother's." Geordie glanced at Sidney. "Out of the country to America, for all I know."

"She wouldn't," Sidney said confidently.

"No?"

"Cathy loves you."

"That would be overstating it," Geordie said. "Given that she's asked me not to come back."

Sidney lifted his glass in acknowledgment.

They drank together until the manager came and flipped the other stools upside onto the counter. Without Geordie realizing, all the lamps in the bar had been turned down but the one behind Sidney's head. It gave him a golden crown, like a pencil picture of King George VI in one of Esme's reading primers.

Why such a person would become a vicar, he thought. Sidney wore his collar like it was a relief to be so restrained. As if he were afraid of what he might do without it.

The clock chimed insistently.

"That's me, then," Geordie said, and set out a few bills.

He was shocked when Sidney caught him by the wrist. Geordie was by no means a small man; he had served in the war and done his training, kept up with his fitness. But Sidney's fingers wrapped around him and then some, almost bearish. Too large. Too clumsy.

"What are you up to?" Geordie said, amused.

"You're not planning to sleep in your car, are you?" Sidney said. "You'll get a crick in the neck."

Geordie had in fact been planning to use the backseat of his Magnette as a quick-change boarding house bed. He said, "Well, the office is out, so."

Sidney frowned. "Cathy doesn't want you staying at the house? Surely she can't keep you from sleeping in your own home. Especially when she's not there."

Cathy wouldn't have to know, Geordie thought. If he slunk back to the house and slept in their bed again. He would call it memories, paternal rights to what was his. She might not like it; she would almost certainly look at him with those wide eyes, asking him to give in before they'd even had it out.

 _What if I don't want to go?_ he would say. _What if I want us to try again? You're cutting me out without even giving it a proper go._

But all she would have to do to win the argument was say, _Margaret._

"I'll get a room for the night," Geordie said, though no respectable hotel would take a guest so late. He took the cigarette that Sidney offered. It was difficult to keep the tip steady in the flame, drunk as he was. "Don't worry about me."

"Worry," Sidney laughed. "Does that sound like me?"

Probably best not to respond to that one. Sidney was a good man and a good vicar, well-liked by his parishioners. It was also true, he thought, that there was some streak of nihilism in him, a selfishness that could be monstrous to look at. At times in their friendship, Geordie had started to turn his head, only to jerk back around as something -- a flicker, a shadow -- passed through his peripheral vision. Sidney was sewn up tight in his blacks and his collar. Once Geordie had a dream that he undid that collar and the whole thing unraveled: Sidney's shirt split open to the waist to reveal a grinning face underneath, eyes white, teeth shining.

Geordie worked very hard not to notice how greedily Sidney sometimes looked at him.

"You should go home," he said, looking away. "You've got Mrs. Maguire burning the midnight oil."

Sidney's voice was low and hoarse when he said, "You could come back with me."

There it was. He said, "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Why?" Sidney's face was too innocent by half. "The sofa pulls out in the study."

"And that's where I'd stay?"

Sidney didn't blink. "Of course," he said. "Where else?"

It wasn't like, Geordie thought, he didn't sometimes look back.

"All right," he said, and pulled on his coat. "Just for the night."

For some reason, that pleased Sidney.

"A night," he said, guiding Geordie out the entrance to the alley, "a week. We'll see." Beyond that, only God knew.


End file.
